The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light)

by McPhail, Melissa

  “Dore’s work is his own, Franco,” Niko soothed, sensing his agitation but mistaking the reason for it. “But you needn’t worry. The Prophet is our ally.”

  “Oh indeed,” Franco returned flatly. It was time to move this meeting along while the contents of his stomach remained within it. Franco looked to his host. “I tire of this questioning, Niko. Why have you invited me here? What’s this about?”

  Niko gave him a gratuitous smile saturated with insincerity. “We are but old friends getting reacquainted, Franco!” He opened palms in a beseeching gesture. “Surely you’re not offended by our interest?”

  ‘Gain his confidence in whatever way you must…’

  Dagmar’s command weighed heavily upon Franco’s already overtaxed conscience. Appearances, appearances!

  Franco reined in his anger and apprehension and dampened it beneath a shield of sour protest. “No…of course not, Niko.”

  Niko settled him a pleased smile. “To the point then, as you have so graciously requested.” He crossed ankle over knee and clasped hands in his lap, a studied gesture intended to disarm the conversation. “Franco,” he began then as his pale gold eyebrows furrowed with disingenuous concern, “you must know that the realm is out of Balance.”

  Franco nodded for him to continue.

  “We believe,” and he indicated Dore as part of the we, “that to rectify and restore Balance to the realm, we must have a full complement representing us in Illume Belliel. This is imperative, Franco.” He leaned in to add with a conspiratorial frown, “I must tell you, we are not the only ones who trust to this solution.”

  Franco watched Niko’s face for any hint of his deceitful nature, but the man was impressively vacant. “Let me see if I understand,” he replied, taking a measured breath. “You believe the realm is out of Balance because all five Vestals aren’t sitting in some chairs in Illume Belliel?”

  “It is the only explanation that fits,” Niko assured him. “Think about it: the timing of the war, the circumstances surrounding the Second Vestal’s disappearance and the Fifth’s betrayal…all of these events exactly correlate to the moment the Adept race began dying.” He opened palms to the ceiling as if his logic was incontrovertible. “There really can be no other reason for it.”

  Franco sat dumbfounded. He was, in fact, so thoroughly flabbergasted that the moment left him entirely without response. It was so beyond the limits of reason! “I must…think on this,” he said ineptly.

  “Yes, it is astonishing, is it not?”

  “Quite,” Franco heartily agreed.

  “We must know where you stand, Rohre,” Dore demanded then, suddenly paying attention to the conversation again. “Are you with us?”

  Franco was so unbalanced that it took him precious moments to derive what Dore was asking. The shock when he did realize it nearly thrust him from his chair. “You’re…” he fought to control his fury, to suppress the urge to draw his blade and cut off both their heads before violently eviscerating the rest of them. “You’re planning to depose the…Second and Fifth Vestals?”

  “That is a harsh word,” Niko protested in an injured tone, “and not fair to our intentions. No, not fair at all.”

  “The Second Vestal could be dead for all we know,” Dore pointed out curtly, “and the Fifth is disavowed. The Alorin Seat should have confronted the matter centuries ago. If she’d the courage then to do what was needed, our race would not now be dying.”

  “It must be done,” Niko said, clasping hands in his lap resolutely, as if he was well and truly regretful about their intended coup. “For the good of the realm, of course.”

  Franco fervently wanted a drink, but he’d be damned if he’d imbibe anything given him by Niko van Amstel.

  ‘Gain his confidence in whatever way you must…’

  Damn Dagmar for leveling such an order! Damn Niko for his accursed plotting! But above all, Franco knew he was truly damned because he hadn’t had the courage three centuries ago when all might’ve gone quite differently. Now it was long too late.

  “I confess...” Franco managed, knowing he had to say something, “I am most…concerned by this course of action. What if it fails?”

  “We have powerful allies,” Dore assured him with a wicked smile.

  Franco cringed inside. “What allies?”

  “They prefer to remain anonymous,” Niko said, “but I assure you they are most capable of following through at their end of things.”

  “And…” By Cephrael’s Great Book! Franco felt dry-throated with panic and fury both. “And what does this plan involve?”

  Niko gave him a reassuring smile. “Right now, nothing is needed from you save knowing that you stand with us. When the time comes, of course…” and his smile broadened, “well…then you will need only vote as your conscience dictates, yes?”

  ‘Others have received such invitations—voting Guild members…’ Dagmar’s words took on a deeper and far more ominous meaning.

  “Who?” Franco managed. “Who will replace the Great Master?”

  Niko cast him a knowing look of abashed acceptance.

  Franco very nearly lost his composure entirely. “You,” he croaked.

  Niko nodded in false modesty. “We searched for others—even your name was upon the list of candidates—but in the last, this burden was thrust upon me. Dore and the others eventually convinced me—over great protest, I must say, for surely others are equally worthy—that it is my duty to accept the role, for the good of the realm.”

  Franco couldn’t help himself asking, “And the Alorin Seat? She also trusts to this solution?” He remembered Alshiba’s calm determination at Mark Lavin’s abandoned manor and her resolute unwillingness to generally believe ill of the Fifth Vestal.

  “Alshiba and I have an understanding,” Niko replied with a smile that was too smug for Franco’s ease. “As I said, we’ve spent much time together.”

  Franco wanted to strangle him. So it’s not enough to propose unseating the Second and Fifth Vestals, but let’s slander the First while you’re at it by insinuating shared intimacy with the likes of you? Niko’s audacity defied comprehension.

  “And what of Björn?” Franco posed, keeping his emotions in close check now. “Who will replace him?”

  “We have several wielders in mind. As you know, it will take a Guild vote to elect the candidates for the Second Vestal, but the Alorin Seat alone may propose the Fifth. Even then, the appointment must go to the Council of Realms and can only be ratified by the Speaker.”

  “And you intend to influence that decision? You think you can?”

  “We are certain of the matter,” Dore intoned in a voice like gravel.

  Franco was ready to impale him with the closest sharp object to hand. He knew he had to get out of there before he lost control and killed the both of them—or at least himself in trying. “Well…” he said slowly, calling up a smile as sincere as Niko’s own, “when the time comes, Niko, you have my word that I will vote as my conscience dictates.”

  Niko opened arms. “That is all we can ask of any of our Guild brothers, is it not, Dore?”

  Dore grunted disagreeably, no doubt disgruntled by the fact that his wielder wasn’t still there to disprove Franco’s fealty. The cadaverous wielder shoved out of his chair and stalked out onto the balcony, where the storm now raged.

  As Niko and Franco also stood—since their meeting was clearly adjourned—Franco noticed that the rain formed a sheet around Dore. The faintest tingling reached his awareness as well, one he’d come to know of late—through recent association with Björn van Gelderan—as wielding of the fifth strand of elae.

  If Franco had been dismayed before, now he was veritably howling.

  A man was mistaken who thought that wielders weren’t able to learn fifth strand patterns—some of the simpler patterns, such as those that shift the density of the air, were not too complex for a studied wielder to master. Rather, the problem with wielding the fifth—as any sane man knew—
is that every endeavor involving fifth-strand patterns requires an enormous understanding of Balance and its play on the realm. Few wielders had ever mastered the fifth and achieved the necessary understanding of Balance, though many had tried and died in the attempt. Every wielder knows that to dabble in the fifth is courting disaster. Yet here was Dore using the fifth to keep his boots dry. Franco gazed at him in horror.

  “I know it can be a lot to take in, my old friend,” Niko said, once more misinterpreting Franco’s silence. He placed a hand on Franco’s arm again. “I look forward to putting these dark times behind us, to a day when we might renew the friendship we once boasted.”

  Franco looked to him. One day I will do it, he promised himself as his eyes met Niko’s. One day I will make you regret all of the lives you’ve so callously ruined in pursuit of your own vanity. “I look forward to that day,” Franco replied, thinking of an entirely different scene from the one Niko proposed.

  Niko smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Good.” He dropped his arm and turned to frown at Dore, noting, “It is a relief to me that you are with us, Franco. With the dark times ahead—surely to mirror on some level those that lie behind—we must separate our friends from our enemies, the craven from the courageous souls who place the realm’s survival above their own.”

  Franco thought that demarcation had long ago been made, and by the Fifth Vestal no less, who was far more qualified to sort through such allegiances. “I must go, Niko.”

  Niko turned in surprise. “You will not stay for dinner? For the festivities? At week’s end I am throwing a grand fete—many of our old acquaintances will be attending, as well as some illustrious personages you would do well to meet, Franco.”

  “I fear I cannot stay. I have an…engagement,” and he managed his best wanton grin.

  Niko’s gaze turned knowing. “In all these years…you haven’t changed.”

  Franco clapped a hand on his shoulder and replied with daggers in mind, “Neither have you.” Then he turned his back on the man and left as quickly as he dared.

  Seven

  “Let not the eyes deceive the mind; the heart is a truer guide.”

  - Jayachándranáptra, Rival of the Sun

  Tanis dreamed of his mother.

  In his dream, he was naught but a babe wrapped in blankets against the brisk sea air. His mother was holding him in her arms, and he could smell the ocean and feel its breeze on his face…

  “Now, Tanis love,” his mother murmured lovingly as she held him close and rocked gently back and forth, “don’t you ever be afraid. Fear is but the mask of capricious apparitions meaning only to deceive. It haunts and teases and torments, but its threats are empty. If you follow fear, if you let its whispers turn you from your path, fear will lead you to your doom. There’s nothing in this world that can hurt you unless you first decide that it can. Even death is only another beginning. What then is there to fear?”

  “Wise words from the wisest woman alive, Tanis lad,” came the solemn voice of his father. Tanis couldn’t see him, but he sensed his presence somewhere behind his mother. “What has Tanis to fear in life with you for his mother?” his father asked lovingly then, and Tanis saw the underside of his chin as his father leaned to kiss his mother.

  To which his mother replied afterwards, “We all must walk our paths…”

  When Tanis woke, he was in a strange room.

  He vaguely recalled the Fhorgs hauling him off in the middle of the night, but these memories were hazy and difficult to reach, blurred as they were by pain.

  Pain.

  Tanis sat straight up on the narrow bed, suddenly alert.

  Why didn’t he feel any pain?

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept—it could’ve been a day or longer—but he still ought to be experiencing some pain. He pushed at his eye and lip, which should’ve been swollen or at least bruised, and then yanked up his tunic to assess his ribs and belly. He found no bruises. No swelling, no tenderness. Nothing to show he’d been beaten.

  The realization came as a shock. Had someone healed him? Surely no other explanation was sound, yet it seemed impossible that Pelas would allow it. In fact, though Tanis would’ve liked to believe otherwise, he was certain Pelas had nothing to do with healing him.

  Then who?

  And what would the others do when they found out?

  Tanis didn’t have long to wait for this answer, because it was just a moment later that one of the Fhorgs barged into his small room. The Wildling took one look at him, and his face went wooden. He spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming and locking the door behind him. Two of them showed up three minutes later, and the second one stalked over and grabbed Tanis’s chin, looking him over with his woad-stained face. He snatched up the lad’s clothing even as Tanis had done himself only moments before. Then he stepped back looking suspicious.

  “How did you do it?” the Fhorg demanded.

  Tanis shrugged helplessly.

  The Fhorg slapped him. “How did you do it?” he shouted.

  “I don’t know!”

  The man’s second cuff knocked Tanis sideways on the bed, and he tasted blood. Tanis glared up at him. “The truth doesn’t change just because you hit me!”

  “You’d be surprised,” remarked the Fhorg coldly. “We’ll see what Pelas says about this.”

  They stalked out.

  Alone on the bed in a strange room, Tanis promised himself he wouldn’t cry, but he felt shaken and frightened and altogether miserable. And he was so mad at himself! Why had he followed Pelas? Why? He’d known the horrible, malicious things the man involved himself in ever before he left the café—he’d known the man was terribly dangerous. Why then? It made no sense whatsoever!

  Yet every time Tanis thought back to that moment, the same sense of duty resurfaced. It was as palpable a feeling as hunger or heartbreak, and it called to him purposefully while fear quickened his heart.

  Tanis didn’t understand what it meant that he kept feeling as if he had a duty to carry out in regards to Pelas, but he imagined it must mean something—that much he knew from his training with Master O’reith.

  “We’re all capable of knowing much more about the world and each other than we allow ourselves, Tanis youth,” his master had often lectured. “The Fifth Law of Patterning states that a wielder is limited by what he can envision. Likewise, the First Truth is based on the principle that a man may know what he envisions himself capable of knowing.”

  Tanis only ever understood about ten percent of anything Master O’reith talked about.

  “Instinct comes from many sources, Tanis youth: conscience, long-buried truths often denied, and even earlier memories from our past Returnings resurfacing to influence our decisions for good or ill.” The old man had continued while cleaning his spectacles with a corner of his robe and thus squinting across the table at Tanis, “Most people ignore instinct, but that does not mean it doesn’t hail from a place of truth. Often instinct is all that stands between choosing a ship destined to falter in the storm and one that will safely reach port.”

  Tanis had interpreted this to mean when instinct guided you, you’d be smart to do what it said. But that didn’t make it easy, and instinct certainly didn’t keep his stomach from growling.

  Forlorn and hungry, Tanis laid down on the bed again and curled into a ball, still fighting off tears. His hand slipped up underneath his pillow, and—

  Tanis bolted upright and shoved the pillow aside.

  His dagger glinted dully against the cot.

  Tanis stared at the weapon while his mind tried to make sense of what he saw. Of course, there was no way that Pelas would’ve returned his dagger. Which left only one explanation.

  Phaedor must’ve enchanted the blade.

  Tanis felt suddenly choked with gratitude. Inhaling a shuddering breath, he picked up Phaedor’s dagger and held it to his chest, gritting his teeth against hated tears. That he carried with him something of the zanthyr, something Pelas coul
dn’t take away from him—at least not for long—it was so incredibly important and special to him. Thank you, my lord! he thought desperately, sending his heartfelt appreciation toward the zanthyr, wherever he was.

  Tanis easily imagined the zanthyr placing some kind of working upon the blade before giving it to him, a boomerang dagger that always came back to where it started. What really twisted his mind into knots, however, was wondering why Phaedor had put the spell upon the dagger. Had he known, even then, what Tanis would face? He wouldn’t put it past the zanthyr to know such things. Phaedor stood leagues above others in most every imaginable way.

  After hugging the dagger for longer than he would’ve been comfortable admitting, Tanis slipped it into his boot. Then he got up from the bed and walked to the room’s only window. A rough shove pushed it open. Cold air flooded in, thick with brine and laden with the sound of the crashing sea. Charcoal waves thundered at the base of a cliff a hundred paces beneath his high room, and nothing but rugged, rocky coastline spread for miles.

  Tanis sank to his knees and rested arms on the windowsill. Well, they weren’t in the Cairs anymore.

  Resting his chin on his hands, he watched the waves crashing below. He felt as if he’d been split in half, where one side of him wanted to do one thing while the other knew it had to do just the opposite. This duality manifested in several ways. For instance, part of him really wanted to be afraid, but another part knew he couldn’t afford to be—the part that remembered his dream and his mother’s important words.

  Part of him wanted to mourn the loss of his friends and the safety that came in their company, while another part knew his friends would get along fine without him and there was something he was meant to do meanwhile.